


The Revival of Alseides

by Fruitso



Category: Tenkuu no Escaflowne | The Vision of Escaflowne
Genre: A Girl on Gaea, Angst, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Character Death In Dream, During Canon, Escaflowne Movie, Explicit Language, Gen, Immolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruitso/pseuds/Fruitso
Summary: Broken and humiliated, all Dilandau has left is the promise of power from the dragon armor: Alseides. But is he willing to pay the price to become the god of fire?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	The Revival of Alseides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nehasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehasy/gifts).



> My contribution to the NSFW Escaflowne Secret Santa 2019. This story takes place during the movie, and is a possible interpretation of what went on with Dilandau as he was being integrated into the Alseides.

“...a new power…. I want that power…” Dilandau mumbled deliriously. It was all he could do to distract himself from the pain still throbbing in his arm. The surgeon had barely paid any care for his shattered bones when he bandaged them, damn him. He would be sure to return the favor as soon as he acquired the new power he’d been promised. Yes, him and Folken—That son-of-a-bitch.

Dilandau grimaced as the cart landed with a jolt on the floor of the cavern. They were hundreds of miles below the city of Torushina. Apparently this was the mine owned by the wealthy Fassa family used to procure the city’s signature energist crystals. Not that it mattered, since the apparent discovery of the other dragon armor, the Black Dragon Clan had been quick to appropriate the mine and the city above it as well. Armored foot soldiers covered nearly every possible entrance and vantage point that Dilandau could see. There was still some light from the sun above to illuminate the machinery around him, but the rest of the cave below was shrouded in darkness. 

A tug from the soldier in front of him brought Dilandau’s attention back with a snarl. The masked guard simply scowled and said, “This way, _Lord_ Dilandau.” Despite the facial covering, Dilandau could hear the mocking sneer in his voice. He would’ve snapped the bastard’s neck with his magic if only he wasn’t still weak from the battle with Van and Folken's ‘correction’. Also there were about a dozen of them escorting him, all in full armor whereas he’d been stripped to near nakedness—they’d told him it was necessary for the ritual that was needed to revive the dragon, but Dilandau figured it was to humiliate him as part of his punishment. 

In a way, he was almost glad none of his Dragonslayers were around to witness him like this. They’d been separated ever since he’d gone to report to Folken. He wondered if they knew what was going on—so much had happened so quickly since the botched retrieval of the Wing Goddess. Although it did feel oddly disconcerting to be apart from his faithful wing-men. Even the presence of that pestering beast Jajuka would have made him feel easier. But Dilandau quickly shook off those feelings. They made him weak. And those who were weak died. He would not die… not like Miguel, Dallet, and Guimel. Dilandau winced again, though not from his arm.

They were taking him deeper into the mine. Soon none of the light from above could reach them, and Dilandau had to rely on the meager illumination of the blue torches to make his way down. The flames cast everything in distorted and macabre shadows. Strange sounds of machinery and valves echoed off the tunnel walls. Dilandau recognized these as signs that there were Sorcerers at work here. He shuddered despite himself. 

Goddamned Sorcerers. No one really knew what they were. The rumor was that they had been a race called the Ispano, whose insatiable hunger for science and magic led them to modify their own bodies to the point where they were now nothing more than disembodied brains enclosed in masses of flesh and machinery. Despite their revolting appearance, they were the foremost experts on magic and its connection with Dragon Clan blood, so Lord Folken allowed them to conduct their inhumane experiments. They probably wished they could get their tendrils on someone like Folken, whose blood inherently contained pure magical qualities… but instead they had to settle for Dilandau.

Ever since Folken had ‘saved’ him, the oh-so-benevolent lord had practically handed Dilandau to the Sorcerers as a guinea pig—ostensibly to study the magic properties of his blood, but Dilandau thought it was to teach him that his true value lay in his body and nothing more. Even so, perhaps the only reason Folken hadn’t let those freaks completely dissect him was because he _was_ one of the last of his kind. Folken had admitted as much after demonstrating the power of his superior bloodline on his arm in their last meeting. Although it raised questions as to why Folken was allowing him the power of the dragon armor to begin with? Could he really not foresee that he’d turn that power against him? Or did Folken not think he could successfully kill Van with it? Something more was going on that Dilandau just couldn’t fathom. It pissed him off to think that he was only being used as a disposable pawn. No matter what Folken was scheming, he’d prove himself by killing Van and the Wing Goddess… and then he’d take care of Folken himself. 

This thought made Dilandau smile as the soldiers brought him into an inner sanctum of the cavern. His smile quickly faded at what greeted him. There more lights set up here, which revealed the source of all the noise he’d heard coming in. Writhing, pumping machines scoured the cavern, with tubes carrying some foul liquid into the gargantuan mass that dominated the center of the floor. It was like nothing Dilandau had ever seen, yet just the sight of it sent a quiver of fear through him. It had a humanoid shape, but everything else about it was anything but human. It was pinkish in color, covered in some kind of quartz that had a briny texture. It looked like a mummified corpse. But the most striking—and to Dilandau, grotesque—feature was what looked to be a pair of vulva on the shoulder. But upon closer inspection, they actually appeared to be a pair of closed eyelids; not that it made Dilandau feel any easier. 

This was the dragon armor?

Fixed around the monster were a series of glowing orange cylinders where it appeared the tubes were attached. And it was by the light of these cylinders that Dilandau first made out the dwarfish figures which were clambering all around the monstrosity. Sorcerers. He couldn’t tell what exactly they were doing—some of them appeared to be drilling metal rods into the surface of the armor? 

Dilandau’s focus was torn from the spectacle as his escort pushed him forward toward a group of Sorcerers he hadn’t even noticed closer to the base of the armor. They appeared to be gathered around a table filled with ancient-looking books, pouring over one page in particular which was filled with diagrams of some strange design. It took him a second to recognize it as the dragon armor. 

Dilandau didn’t have long to ponder where and how they had attained such a book before the masked soldier strode up and announced their presence, “On the order of Lord Folken, I have brought the subject.”

The clustered Sorcerers broke apart and floated over to them. Up close, the stitches and needles that held together the agglomeration of flesh and tubes were grossly apparent. Embedded within their lumpy skin were a seemingly random assortment of glassy eyes—all of which fixed themselves on Dilandau. He couldn’t help recoiling. 

“Ahh, the calyx,” one of them said through the mechanical speaker patch affixed to the center of its head. From its robe, a short rubbery tendril lifted towards Dilandau as though wanting to caress him. 

Dilandau snapped at it. “Keep away from me!” He tried to sound less nervous than he felt. “And what the hell do you mean by ‘calyx’?”

“It means that you are the host for the dragon.” From above the heads of the others, a particularly large Sorcerer appeared. This one lacked a fleshy superstratum, instead its exposed brain sat in a translucent globe surrounded by metal conductors. Dilandau recognized it. Though no one knew its name—if any of them even had names—this one was widely regarded as the Head Sorcerer. Dilandau had met it before… and was not eager to be around it again.

“So is this the dragon armor? Is this the new power I was promised?” He nodded toward the giant. It was hard to appear dignified wearing only shorts, but Dilandau tried to raise himself to his fullest height to glower down at the Sorcerers. He refused to show fear. Fear was a weakness that they could exploit, and he was determined not to let these bastards get to him.

The Head Sorcerer reacted only with a wave of one of its tendrils. He wished their expressions weren’t so unreadable. “It is,” the voice trembled with reverence. “The brother of the dragon god… Alseides.” 

The name seemed to come out like a sigh, sending an unwitting shiver down Dilandau’s spine. Had he heard that name before? It seemed to scratch at the surface of his consciousness, but he couldn’t pin-point where. For some reason all he could think of was a melody…

Dilandau shook the feeling off, instead focusing on the Head Sorcerer. “Well it looks like a rotten carcass to me. How am I even supposed to use it?”

“We must initiate the Rite of Resurrection,” as soon as the Head Sorcerer spoke, the other assembled Sorcerers behind him chorused the name in unison. As if they weren’t creepy enough. Dilandau was starting to have second-thoughts about this.

A loud noise startled him and he turned to see movement coming from the armor; steam was escaping from what looked to be the thing’s chest as the Sorcerer’s crawling on top of it hooked it to a crane from one of the machines above. Another piercing screech as the gears of the pulley began prying the chest open. 

When Dilandau turned back to the Sorcerers in front of him, he noticed they had spread out… and were a lot closer than before. “What ‘rite’?” He said, desperately looking about him for an escape. The rest of the cavern was blanketed in shadows, and his armored escort remained stationed behind him. There wasn’t anywhere he could go.

Dilandau cursed himself. Surely if they wanted to kill him, they would have done it by now. He mustn’t show fear… mustn’t show fear…

The Head Sorcerer was in front of him, tendrils dangling toward him as though trying to embrace him. “The dragon armor seeks the blood of the Dragon Clan. To awaken from its slumber, there must be a transference of essence.”

They were inching closer, and Dilandau couldn’t help backing up. But there was a soldier behind him now, and he couldn’t move anywhere else. “Wait…” he started to say, but suddenly two of the soldiers grabbed each of his arms. A lance of pain shot up through the injured one, and Dilandau had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. Still, he struggled against their grip.

The Head Sorcerer continued on, “Yes, even though your blood is impure, the armor should still accept it. It just might require… more than the typical amount.” One of its tendrils touched his face, and at that, Dilandau did scream. 

Suddenly there was a commotion behind them. Dilandau couldn’t see past the bulky armor of the guards holding him, but he could hear the sound of steel being drawn. Dilandau felt the soldier holding his right arm hesitate, and he took advantage of his distraction to pull that arm free. The soldier still gripping his left only had one hand on him as he pulled his own sword from its scabbard. Dilandau tried wrestling that arm free, but the soldier turned his blade threateningly toward his exposed flesh, and Dilandau knew he couldn’t avoid it at this angle. 

But just then he caught a glimpse of the source of the distraction. From the passageway above came three—no, four—familiar figures. With swords drawn the remaining Dragonslayers, Gatti, Chesta, Viole—and even that beast Jajuka—landed near them. The soldier that Dilandau had broken from tried to confront them, but with lightning quick reflexes, Viole slashed the sword from his hand—along with a few fingers. Gatti and Chesta were moving on the remaining two guards, but the soldier holding Dilandau held his blade precariously along his neck and shouted, “Another step and I will end his miserable life!” Dilandau recognized his voice as the masked one who’d taunted him earlier. 

Behind him, Dilandau could hear the Sorcerers’ dismay, but the soldier ignored them. Gatti and Chesta paused, but kept their swords at the ready. Meanwhile Viole had his blade pointed at the soldier he’d disarmed. He snarled at the one holding Dilandau, “You better not touch him!”

_Fools_ , Dilandau thought to himself. Didn’t they realize this was suicide? Yet he couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from curling into a grin. His men were risking everything in order to ensure his safety. Such loyalty was almost unheard of, even among the ranks of the Black Dragon Clan. But it was what he’d instilled upon each and every one of them. Folken might claim that it was _he_ who had bestowed him the Dragonslayers, but Dilandau was the one who’d hand-picked and nurtured the members of the group. 

All except for Jajuka. The beast had been more-or-less assigned to keep an eye on Dilandau, and he’d always considered him to be nothing more than Folken’s shill. So his appearance here surprised Dilandau—perhaps he’d misjudged the beast’s allegiances.

Yet still, the masked soldier refused to relax his grip, and Dilandau had to shift his head to prevent the blade from breaking the skin of his neck. “You traitors!” he hissed. “Lord Folken will hear about this!”

“Enough!” Jajuka’s growl was deep and fierce. He strode past Gatti and Chesta to confront the soldier directly. Standing a good two heads taller than anyone else, the beast dominated the room. And as he focused his predator-like eyes down on them, Dilandau felt the soldier quake. He couldn’t blame him—he’d once seen Jajuka bisect a man with a single sword strike. 

“This is a commander of the Black Dragon Clan,” Jajuka continued, keeping his voice to a bass-like tremble. “What gives you the right to treat him like a prisoner?”

“My orders come from Lord Folken himself, beast!” The soldier responded. “You are the ones out of line!”

Next to Jajuka, Gatti moved up and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Then why are you threatening him?”

The soldier hesitated and from the corner of his eye, Dilandau spotted the Sorcerers coming around to move in between them. Their tendrils waved in the air beseechingly. “We beg you, cease this needless violence! The calyx must remain unharmed!”

Dilandau noticed Gatti shirking back from the creature in disgust, while Chesta and Viole looked at them with suspicion. Jajuka merely raised a brow and opened his jaw as though to speak, but paused as his gaze passed beyond them to behold the dragon armor behind them. His pupils contracted. “By the gods…” he muttered, and the other Dragonslayers seemed to catch sight of the gargantuan thing at the same time.

“Is that the dragon armor?” Chesta asked.

“Yes, it is the Alseides!” The Head Sorcerer turned quickly back to Dilandau and the soldier, whose posture was becoming more lax. “We’ve wasted enough time already. We must start the Rite of Resurrection posthaste!”

Sensing the soldier’s hesitation, Dilandau saw an opportunity and bit down on the blade still hovering near his neck with his teeth. The soldier jerked it back in response. The edge cut the corners of his lips, but Dilandau managed to hold on. The soldier didn’t have a chance to retaliate as Gatti rushed in and dove his sword into his neck. Blood from the wound gushed out as the soldier stumbled backwards, catching Dilandau partly across the face as he stepped back. Chesta, Viole, and Jajuka rushed to his side, forming a protective circle in front of the quavering Sorcerers.

“Are you alright, Commander?” Chesta glanced at him worriedly. Dilandau slid his tongue across the cut corners of his mouth. He barely felt anything there, though his arm still throbbed with pain.

“What should we do with these… things?” Gatti indicated the Sorcerers with his bloody sword.

“I say we get rid of ‘em all,” Viole muttered, his own sword ready at hand. The sounds that began emanating from the Sorcerer’s speaker patches were quite amusing as they squirmed about in terror.

However Jajuka lay a hefty paw on Viole’s shoulder. “I would advise against that. Lord Folken would surely retaliate against us if we slaughter them.”

The Head Sorcerer inched forward cautiously, raising its tendrils pathetically. “Yes, please have mercy! We do not intend harm! We can still be of use to you!”

“Shut up!” Gatti shouted, and it flinched back. He turned to Dilandau. “I say we make a break for it. Escape Torushina and get away from the Black Dragon Clan! It’s obvious they don’t give a damn about us, and I’m not going to sacrifice my life for the sake of Folken’s madness!”

There were some mutters of agreement between Viole and Chesta. Jajuka remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the armor. The rest looked to Dilandau for his decision. 

Dilandau considered the globe-encased brain of the Head Sorcerer warily. The forces of the Black Dragon Clan would undoubtedly track them down if they tried to escape… and he didn’t necessarily want to run away. He stared back at the armor. 

Alseides. It sounded familiar somehow, as though from a long forgotten song. He closed his eyes and seemed to recall a faintly feminine voice singing to him. But he couldn’t make out the lyrics, or the identity of the singer. Yet somehow he seemed to remember faintly what it was about. Of course, Dilandau knew the legends about Ancient Gaea and the dragon armors. He’d heard the stories about the destruction the dragons had wrought, and the subsequent remaking of the world by the Goddess from the ashes. To him, they’d all been merely bedtime stories. But what if they were true? What if the Alseides could give him that kind of power?

He didn’t want to give himself over to whatever nefarious procedures the Sorcerers had in mind—the very thought of those tendrils crawling all over his naked flesh sickened him. But if that was the price for possessing the Alseides, could he do it? Folken had said he’d had a very strong will, and damn him, he was right. Whatever it took, he wanted that power.

Finally, Dilandau spoke, “How much blood would it take?”

The others around him balked, but the Head Sorcerer merely made a sound somewhere between delight and relief. “Like I stated before, because of your impure blood, it will take a lot. Essentially, all of it. But do not fear, you will not perish!” It indicated with its tendril the orange canisters. “With these vials of plasma, we will be able to keep you stabilized.”

Jajuka made a noise of disgust. The others just looked horrified. 

“No way!” Viole turned to Dilandau pleadingly. “Sir, you can’t! That’ll kill you!”

Dilandau ignored him and stared levelly at the Head Sorcerer. “And after the resurrection is complete, will it be mine? Will I have full control of the Alseides?”

“Oh yes! You and the Alseides will essentially be one entity!”

Jajuka suddenly stepped in between Dilandau and the Sorcerers, snarling, “You must not allow them to do this, Lord Dilandau! It is not merely your blood you will share with that demon, but your soul as well!”

Dilandau frowned, the goodwill he’d found for the beast evaporating as he was reminded of his incessant nagging. “I don’t need my soul, I need that power! Once I have the power of the dragon armor, I will be able to kill Van _and_ Folken!”

“Haven’t you heard the legends? That should the dragon armors be reborn, they would burn down Gaea again? Are you willing to risk that, Lord Dilandau?” The intensity of Jajuka’s stare was so great that Dilandau found himself doubting his resolve. 

Beside him, Chesta’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard those stories too,” he said, catching Dilandau’s eye before glancing away. From his angle, Dilandau could barely make out the mark etched on the boy’s forehead—the mark that indicated his descendants from the mystics of Ancient Gaea. Of course, if anyone knew about ancient legends and prophesy, it would be him. 

He looked again to the Alseides. It no longer looked quite so repugnant to him—no, in fact its visage was starting to seem oddly familiar. Again, Dilandau couldn’t say why. When he first saw it, he’d had the impression that it was just some long-dead fossil. But now it looked to him like it was simply sleeping… waiting for him. The Sorcerers had told him that only his blood that could resurrect it, right? The words of warning from his comrades briefly flitted across his mind, but he discarded them. So what if the world burned? What did it matter to him? 

He shouldered past Jajuka and strode up toward the Head Sorcerer. He felt Gatti try to catch his arm as he passed, crying, “Commander!” But he ignored him. 

“I am ready,” Dilandau told the delighted looking Sorcerers.

“Lord Dilandau, please rethink this!” Jajuka pleaded behind him.

Dilandau turned back and faced the rest of his Dragonslayers. He saw the fear and concern for him evident on their faces, and he felt the snappy retort he’d had ready freeze on his tongue. As much as he detested fear, Dilandau could see that it was not for their own safety that they were afraid. Even if it meant the end of the world, they were still devoted to him. Damn, that touched him. Perhaps there was some things in this world that mattered to him…

But Dilandau didn’t express any of this—he wasn’t one to get sentimental. Instead he simply asked, “Do you trust me?”

He saw the conflict and anxiety pass between them. Finally, after a moment it was Jajuka who spoke for them: “It is not you we doubt, Lord Dilandau, but the intentions of these Sorcerers and Folken.”

That was fair. But Dilandau simply said, “You underestimate my will. I will not allow myself to be the puppet of Folken, or the Alseides. I am stronger than they know.”

Jajuka still looked unsure, but surprisingly it was Chesta who stepped up and looked him straight in the eye and said, “We trust you, Lord Dilandau.”

Again, Dilandau felt that warm feeling in his gut at their fealty. To save face, he suppressed the urge to embrace his young acolyte—instead opting for a reassuring pat on his arm. “I’ll still be depending on all of you,” he said to the rest of them.

They all nodded solemnly. Jajuka simply looked resigned but he said nothing more. So Dilandau turned back to the Sorcerers and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

They led him toward the Alseides. Up close, the quartz-like outer shell looked almost like the fresh skin of a newborn. Dilandau also noticed now that the Sorcerers he’d seen crawling over the surface were inserting rods into what looked like partitions that separated the various bits of the armor from the other. The whole thing was like some bizarre combination of organism and machine—like a cross between a beetle and an arthropod.

Underneath the suspended piece of the armor he’d witnessed the Sorcerer’s remove earlier, was a large cavity embedded deep within the chest of the thing. This was where they were leading him. Inside it, they had installed some kind of mechanical apparatus. There was a mess of tubes and wires, as well as what looked to be a pair of gauntlets built into a chair-of-sorts. Was this how one was supposed to operate the armor? Dilandau peered in cautiously. There was hardly any room for more than one person. He glanced up at the covering suspended above, imagining the claustrophobic feeling of having that closed on top of him once he was inside. He would literally be in the belly of the beast.

The Sorcerers were indicating that he should climb in. Dilandau felt a twinge of reservation, and he glanced back at his Dragonslayers. They were close behind him, ready to intervene should anything happen to him. It was enough to calm his nerves. He sighed and let himself be led into the contraption. As he slipped inside, he could hear his own breath echo off the walls of the small chamber. And for just a moment, he thought he heard that familiar melody again.

The Sorcerers fitted the gauntlets over his arms—there was a spike of pain from the broken one, but Dilandau refused to let that deter him now. It was then he noticed there were a pair of similar sockets for his legs to fit into. It was like donning an over-large suit of armor. How appropriate. It was surprisingly cozy, if not completely comfortable, inside the compartment.

He nodded toward the Head Sorcerer who was hovering nervously above him now. “Okay, so what now?”

Despite its lack of visible eyes, the Head Sorcerer seemed to be watching him intently. “Now we will commence with the blood transfusion to begin the Rite of Resurrection.” It spoke with grave solemnity. 

Dilandau swallowed the anxiety he felt threaten to lump in his throat. It was now or never. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the needles some of the Sorcerers were preparing. There were quite a lot of them. Meanwhile others began reaching in with their tendrils and marking spots on Dilandau’s skin. He suppressed the urge to recoil. If this was all he had to endure to possess the dragon, he could do it. He’d faced much worse.

The Head Sorcerer continued as still more Sorcerers prepared the orange liquid canisters: “I must reiterate that although the process will be uncomfortable, you will be quite safe. As your blood is fed into the Alseides, we will keep you alive by simultaneously transferring this plasma into your body. It will act as fresh blood to replace that which is taken.”

“You mean it’ll take _all_ of my blood?”

“Essentially… yes. But as I stated, the plasma will keep your heart pumping. There shouldn’t be any negative side-effects.”

It sounded dubious, but Dilandau reassured himself that his Dragonslayers were just beyond them above, watching over him. If anything happened they would be there to rescue him. So he resigned himself of his worries and focused on the power he was about to gain.

Having marked his body, the Sorcerers then got to work sticking the various needles into those spots. Dilandau couldn’t help gasping as he felt the tiny tubes burrowing in his veins. Staring down, he could see their forms sticking out under his skin. The pressure was only vaguely uncomfortable, but it felt weird—like a splinter left in the flesh. Did there have to be so many? While it was unpleasant, it wasn’t exactly excruciating and Dilandau began to feel easier about the process. If this was the worst of it, he could handle it.

Then they activated some kind of machine above and the tubes suddenly seemed to come alive. All at once the pressure squeezed his veins and Dilandau could feel—actually _feel_ —them sucking. What was once just nebulously sore instantly felt like red-hot needles all over his body. Dilandau saw the tubes begin filling with a scarlet substance. Blood. _His_ blood. 

From somewhere else another machine started up and the rest of the tubes began filling with the orange plasma, moving towards his body. As soon as it entered his veins, Dilandau screamed. It felt like it was searing through his body! He writhed in this unexpected agony, wrenching against the metal sockets his limbs were fastened inside. Nausea overwhelmed him and his vision went dark for a second. This did not block out the pain however.

Damn the Sorcerers! Were they killing him? He had no idea what they were doing—he could barely see what was in front of him due to the tears which were spilling unbidden from his eyes. As soon as he had the chance, he was going to kill that overlarge fishbowl head… 

The plasma continued to course through his body. It really did feel like he was going to burn to death on the inside. At least he couldn’t feel the pain of his broken arm anymore… but then he couldn’t really feel anything else at that point either. All that was left was the sensation of the lava-like liquid slowly pumping through his circulatory system.

He shuts his eyes and tried to focus on anything else. No matter what, he couldn’t die. Not here. They were depending on him, his Dragonslayers. 

_Just a few moments more_ , he told himself. A few moments and he’d have the power to kill Van and get his revenge on Folken. He just had to hold on a little longer. A little longer…

Faintly—so faintly that he had to strain to hear it—there was the sound of that melody again. Desperately, he reached for it. He tried to comprehend it, to remember why it sounded so damn familiar. Then behind the melody he heard a voice humming. Dilandau felt his throat catch. It was the most majestic sound he’d ever heard. And yet, like the melody, it was so familiar. He wanted to shout, demand to know why. But he didn’t want to interrupt it. And then an odd thing occurred… Dilandau found that he was humming along. Though he didn’t know the tune, his voice harmonized almost perfectly with the other singer. And then he heard words for the first time…

_In the darkness, the Dragon wakes_

_to a cold heart the Dragon takes,_

_You at my side, the Dragon sleeps_

_on Dragon wings, your wishes leap_

Dilandau barely registered the tears that streamed down his face. Whether it was from the pain or not, he could no longer tell. In fact, he didn’t even feel the pain anymore. Everything was dark. But the singer continued on, and Dilandau listened along.

_Your wishes can bring forth_

_a destructive future_

_Or_

_You can bring salvation_

…

…

… Dilandau slowly opened his eyes. His vision was still blurry but there was sunlight streaming in from a window somewhere, as far as he could tell. He frowned. Had he been asleep? 

He shifted his position and discovered that he was lying on a mattress. Though his body still felt numb he didn’t feel the tubes sticking out of him anymore. And indeed when he checked, they weren’t there. Neither was the splint on his arm. 

What was going on?

“My sweet boy,” someone said close to him. Dilandau turned around. There was a woman sitting by his bed. He couldn’t quite make out her features, but he did recognize the voice as being that of the singer. And there was something else familiar about her too…

The woman reached over and lay a hand on his forehead, brushing a forelock of hair away from his eyes. Her hand felt worn, yet gentle, and Dilandau felt oddly comforted by it. He wanted to touch her, but the woman removed her hand and said softly, “What did you dream?”

The question that he had wanted to ask seemed to slip from his tongue. Dilandau couldn’t recall the last time he had a dream. Instead he tried to focus on the woman’s face, but they couldn’t seem to adjust. Everything around him looked and felt like it was swimming in a jar of molasses. Even his movements were sluggish. 

Though Dilandau found that he didn’t care. It was warm here. Comfortable. When was the last time he’d been so at ease? In fact, he couldn’t really think to himself at all. It was like being on the verge of sleep. Everything felt unreal. And when he did finally speak, it was like hearing it from someone else’s voice: “There was a dragon.”

The woman chuckled. It sounded so melodic that for a moment Dilandau wished she would never stop. But eventually she did, though the mirth remained in her voice as she said, “You’re always dreaming of dragons.”

“I want to be a dragon someday,” Dilandau found himself saying, though he wasn’t sure why. It was as if the words came unbidden into his head and were forced from his throat.

The woman made a movement, and though he still couldn’t make out the details, Dilandau knew she was smiling. “Have you ever heard the tale of Escaflowne?”

“Of course,” was what Dilandau wanted to say, but he didn’t. Instead he just shook his head and the woman continued: 

“Escaflowne is the god of the sky. The white dragon which the Wing Goddess summons to her aid. It is said with Escaflowne she will lead all of Gaea to a new world.”

He’d heard of this story before. But for some reason Dilandau felt himself becoming excited at the words. 

“I want to be her dragon! I want to help the Wing Goddess!” Again, the words poured from his mouth without his condonation. 

The woman chuckled again, but it was subdued this time. She reached over and patted his head. “My sweet boy, I know you want to. But unfortunately you could never answer the Wing Goddess’s call. Only those of higher birth can resonate with the Goddess.”

He’d known that all his life, yet the disappointment which cut through him felt fresh and deep. His lip trembled and his eyes felt damp. “That’s not fair,” he whispered. 

Dilandau hated how pathetic his voice sounded—but he didn’t necessarily disagree with the sentiment. He’d learned the hard way how cruel life could be. But he also learned that to survive, you had to be even crueler. 

He wanted to tell himself that. But instead, the woman caressed his cheek while making a cooing sound that threatened to elicit his tears. “There, there,” she said. “Do not cry. There are other dragons.”

Dilandau lifted his head. “Other dragons?”

“Yes. There is the god of the earth, Scherazade. The god of water, Chafaris. The twin gods of luck and misfortune, Teiring. And finally, the most fearsome dragon of them all—the god of fire, Alseides.”

God of fire? The image of the grotesque armor flashed in Dilandau’s mind, and he shuddered. He’d never heard that part of the story before… or had he? This whole place—the sunlight, the bed, and the woman sitting next to him—all seemed like some distant memory. 

As he pondered this, he felt the air suddenly go cold. Outside, the sunlight dimmed, filling the room with shadow. Something was wrong. 

Dilandau turned to the woman, but she was already up and moving towards the window. He wanted to get up and join her, but for some reason his limbs refused to obey him. Frustrated and growing scared, he called out: “What’s going on?”

The woman shot out her hand toward him, even though he still couldn’t move. “Stay back! There’s something— oh gods…”

Before he could respond, there was a flash of light from somewhere outside, and a sound like thunder erupting right next to him brought his hands reflexively to his ears. The rancid smell of ash hit his nose and when he opened his eyes again, Dilandau saw smoke filling the room. The woman was gone.

Now his limbs could move, and Dilandau leapt from the bed to where the woman had been standing just seconds ago. He couldn’t see anything, not just from the smoke but also because his vision still refused to focus itself—damn it. His foot hit the edge of what felt like rubble, and when he turned to where the window had been, all Dilandau saw was an open hole. Outside there was a city glowing bright with fire. The air was even thicker with ash and particles of embers that Dilandau had to cover his mouth to keep from gagging.

Just then he caught movement at the edge of his sight. There, under an indistinct pile of fallen wall was a humanoid form. Dilandau hurried frantically to remove the rubble, but it was hot to the touch and for some reason none of it would budge. Yet despite the pain, he strained with all of his strength against the debris… until finally his arms gave out and he collapsed. 

Why was he so weak? Why could he barely move? Why couldn’t he just save one person, dammit? 

As he lay gasping, aching lungs filling with smoke, he thought he could make out the outline of a hand through the rubble. He reached for it desperately. But as he did, the hand and everything around it was surrounded by yet more smog until he couldn’t see anything at all. As the walls of darkness closed it and choked off his breath, Dilandau heard himself screaming as though from far away, “ _Mother_!”

… 

… When Dilandau awakened this time, there was no sunlight to greet him—in fact, there was nothing at all. He perceived only a depthless void all about him. When he attempted to move, he discovered that he couldn’t feel his body. He tried to cry out, but no air escaped his lungs. He even tried manipulating magic—anything to disturb this perpetual placidity. Still nothing.

Was he dead? Was this the afterlife which awaited them all—an eternal purgatory to ruminate over one’s life?

No. Fuck that, he hadn’t gotten this far just to fall short of his destiny now. He’d fought every day of his life to avoid such a fate. He would _not_ end up like the others; like Miguel, Dallet, Guimel, his mother… He wanted the power of the Alseides. He wanted to be a _dragon_! 

With one last angry, desperate cry, Dilandau shouted, “Alseides!”

And then, from both nowhere and everywhere, a voice—deep, ancient, and terrible—replied: 

_WHO DARES SUMMON ME?_

If Dilandau could have shrank back, he would’ve. But as it was in this void dimension, all he could hope was that he truly didn’t have a physical form that could be threatened. Dilandau imagined some indescribable horror belonged to that voice. However nothing materialized from the darkness, and he got the impression that it was waiting for his answer. Hoping that his tone didn’t betray his terror, Dilandau tentatively spoke. “I am Dilandau Albatou.”

For several pained heartbeats, there was nothing, and Dilandau thought that maybe it hadn’t heard him—or was perhaps deliberately ignoring him. Then suddenly the voice boomed again:

_FOR WHAT PURPOSE HAVE YOU AWAKENED ME?_

Dilandau deliberated for a moment how to explain that it wasn’t _technically_ him performing the ritual, and that it was really Folken who was summoning it… but then he considered what the ancient creature was really asking. So with mounting bravado, Dilandau declared, “I wish to take your power!”

Again there was silence. Dilandau waited patiently for its response this time, but when it did, it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. It came as an echo, reverberating off invisible walls before eventually filling the whole void; a menacing and oddly pitched cackle of laughter. It was both maniacal and patronizing. Dilandau’s confidence evaporated.

_YOU?_ the voice came like a gale. _WISH TO TAKE_ MY _POWER?_ Its laugh sounded harsher, and to Dilandau more immediate. 

“Y-yes,” Dilandau’s own voice felt small, and he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud or merely whispered it. The cackling was unceasing, and blanketed everything else. He wish he could somehow cover his ears.

_DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?_

“Yes,” Dilandau tried speaking up. He didn’t sound any louder. 

_WHO AM I?_ The tone was challenging.

“Alseides,” he forced out the words, then after a moment added meekly: “the dragon god of fire.”

And with that, the laughter returned, more terrible than ever before.

Dilandau’s gut reaction was to run, hide, do anything to get away from that laughter. And he hated himself for it. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Well, maybe not through the whole blood sucking ritual—and certainly not in this pitiable state. He didn’t think he’d have to grovel with some ancient demon in some hell dimension in order to operate this hulking carcass of an armor. Hell, he didn’t even know if this whole damn ritual would even work, or if the armor could even function. What was he doing then?

Anger replaced his anxiety, and Dilandau found himself growling at the disembodied entity. “What are you laughing at?”

The laughter lapsed. 

_I LAUGH AT_ YOU _, PATHETIC CREATURE._

“Pathetic? That’s rich, coming from you,” Dilandau felt some of his insolence returning, emboldening him. “I have to say, I was expecting something more from the oh-so-mighty dragon. I’ve seen your form—you’re nothing but a dead relic! A washed up carcass! Where are your wings? Where are your flames? _You’re_ the pathetic one, from where I stand!”

Even though he still couldn’t see anything, Dilandau suddenly felt like his breath got more stifled. 

_I SEE IT IS YOUR BLOOD THAT HAS STIRRED ME. I HAD WONDERED THEN, WHY I DID NOT FEEL COMPELLED TO ANSWER THE CALL. I REALIZE NOW THAT IT IS BECAUSE YOUR BLOOD IS WEAK. YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A HALF-BREED._

Dilandau felt himself tremble, despite his lack of corporeal form, and he screamed, “Fuck you! You know nothing about me! Nothing about what I’ve been through. Nothing about what I can do. I am here now, that proves I am worthy!”

There was a deep rumbling, like the growl of a beast that Dilandau could feel in his chest. Then the voice spoke again—less threatening, but no less edged: 

_YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE WORTHY?_

If he could have lifted his head defiantly, Dilandau would have, as he said without hesitation, “Yes.”

The voice chuckled again, but shorter and at the end simply proclaimed:

_THEN LET US SEE_

And Dilandau felt himself plummet… 

… 

It was like coming out of a dream only to be greeted by a nightmare. 

The sensation of burning reached him before the revelation of flames erupted in his vision. Dilandau leaped back, discovering that one: he had a body again, and two: he was still completely naked; the latter a bigger issue as not only was the ground he was standing on hot as coals, but he could smell his flesh singing off his body. 

Dilandau swung about wildly looking for an escape. But in addition to the flames and accompanying smoke, his breath felt like it was being sucked from his lungs—and his attempt to inhale succeeded only in inviting a mouthful of searing ash which caused him to double over hacking.

So he gave up on locating a way out and just ran. Swinging his legs in long arcs he tried to leap over the fire underneath, keeping his feet off the burning ground as long as possible. But the inferno seemed to be everywhere—and consuming everything. His breaths became shorter under the exertion and lack of oxygen in the air. Each spasm seemed to burn his scarred lungs further. He had to shut his eyes to keep them from searing as well.

Damn Alseides—it really did mean to kill him. He shouldn’t have asked to see its flames. But what the hell else could he have done? Should he have backed down? It didn’t seem like the right choice… 

Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it _damn it_! What even was this a test of? Endurance? Well then, he’d endure—even if he’d end up nothing but charred flesh and bone.

But there wasn’t an end in sight. And his strides were becoming shorter as his lungs began to fail. Dilandau couldn’t even feel the burning sensations in his feet and legs anymore. Probably not a good sign. But he kept driving forward regardless. He refused to die here. Not like this… 

Eventually his legs failed, though it took him awhile to realize it. He collapsed to the ground, skin blackened and flaking off in chips, hair singed away, and eyes swollen. Still he tried to will himself on, but his body refused to obey. There was nothing but fire.

And then like that, the flames vanished. Or at least the flames that were enveloping him. When he finally lifted his head up, Dilandau saw that there was still a blazing wall surrounding him—but it had retreated enough to create a small clearing around his body. When he looked down at his hands, he saw that the flesh was still intact. Was this another trick?

“ _Commander_ …”

Dilandau spun around. Emerging from the inferno were three bodies. They’re skin was as dark as ebony, and their eyes and mouths glowed like embers. The stink of their carbonized flesh assaulted Dilandau’s nose, causing him to gag. As they approached, Dilandau could just barely register familiar features. They were—oh gods—Miguel, Dallet, and Guimel. 

“ _Commander, please… help us_ ,” the form that looked like Dallet moaned. The others were extending their bony appendages toward him. 

“G-get away!” Dilandau backed up—only stopping at the scalding touch of the wall behind him. The others continued to approach.

“ _Were we not faithful to you_?” Guimel’s visage asked.

“I can’t do anything about it now! It’s not my fault!”

Miguel stepped through the barrier, crossing into the cleared patch. “ _We were following_ your _orders_ ! _We died because of_ you!” He pointed an accusing finger at him. Despite no longer being in the flames, Miguel’s skeletal figure still glowed red with heat.

“Get away…” 

“ _You were supposed to take care of us! You were supposed to protect us!_ ” 

Now the bodies of Dallet and Guimel joined Miguel as the trio slowly closed in. Their forms towered over him. They were almost upon him… Dilandau wanted to scream, to run—but there was nowhere to go. Then Miguel’s glowing finger touched him, and Dilandau felt a lance of agony as his skin was branded in a hiss of steam. 

“I said _get away_ !” Dilandau swung his arm, knocking the Miguel-thing off and causing it to stumble. He didn’t relent—the pain transmuting his fear into anger, Dilandau rushed forward into the trio of reanimated corpses, shouting, “You died because you were _weak_! I’m not weak! You hear me? I’ll kill you if you touch me!” 

He kicked at Dallet and felt his foot puncture his chest. Guimel made a grab at him, so Dilandau ducked it and instead captured his wrists. Spinning around, he launched Guimel’s carcass over his head, detaching the thing’s arms as the rest of his body tumbled back into the flames. With disgust, Dilandau tossed the appendages to the ground and saw Miguel still crawling toward him. 

“ _Commander_ ,” he croaked. “ _Don’t leave me_.”

Dilandau felt a brief twinge of regret and sympathy for his former lieutenant. But he swiftly squelched those feelings—along with Miguel’s skull—under his heel. He couldn’t afford to have sympathy for the dead. He was alive, dammit. He was going to survive!

Then he saw another form appear through the flame barrier, and his heart stopped.

“ _Dilandau. My sweet boy_ ,” the blazing corpse of the woman from his dream/vision/memory approached, fire rising from her like the wings of some bird. Her voice sounded as ethereal as before, but slightly warped in a sinister way. 

How much more of this was he to endure? Dilandau shook his head. “What do you want from me?”

“ _You summoned the dragon of fire and brimstone. You summoned Alseides_ .” Tongues of flame lashed from her mouth. “ _There is nowhere you can go. You must embrace the fire, or die_.”

What kind of choice was that? He would die either way. Dilandau glared at her, then turned to the ink-black sky and cried: “Why don’t you show yourself, Alseides? I’m not afraid of you!”

The woman just stood there, flame tendrils whipping about her like a whirlwind. “ _But you are afraid. Afraid for your mortal life_.”

Dilandau turned back to her. “Of course I am! I’m not stupid!”

“ _To become a dragon, you must forsake mortal flesh and become one with the conflagration_.” She extended her hand toward him past the barrier. It glowed bright with embers.

Dilandau hesitated. He recalled what Jajuka had said—how the Alseides would try to take his soul. Was he willing to risk that? He looked about him, seeing nothing but fire. Whether this dimension was real in a physical sense or not, his body was broken. His comrades were either dead or too weak to do anything to help him. He was weak. He’d fought all his life to escape death, but it looked like there was no alternative now. 

He turned back to the woman. Her eyes were as bright as stars, yet there was a gentleness there—the gentleness he had felt in her touch and in her voice. Was she his mother? He had no memories of that time before he was orphaned by the Black Dragon Clan. Perhaps she was. But she, like the rest of his family and clan, was dead. What else did he have to lose?

So with one last breath to gather his resolve, Dilandau reached and grasped the hand. He winced at the touch—it was as hot as it looked. Before he even had the chance to flinch away, he felt himself pulled past the wall and into the inferno itself. Like before, he felt his skin roasting in the heat, nerve endings fraying apart. Soon even the heat of the woman in front of him became indistinguishable from the incalescence surrounding him. Every molecule of his body was being obliterated. 

But despite that, he stood where he was. It wasn’t quite in resistance to the pain, but neither was he giving in either. It was odd. Dilandau watched as his own hand—the one holding the woman’s—melted into slag, exposing white bone which subsequently splintered like wood. He felt all of it, make no mistake, but Dilandau was detached from it. This wasn’t surrendering, wasn’t death; this was a trade. His mortal body for the fire. He was letting the fire _into_ his body, to _become_ the fire. And even as his eyes eventually melted away and he couldn’t see anymore, Dilandau continued to feel the blaze around him. It was no longer a stranger to him. It was nothing to fear—in fact it was beginning to feel comfortable, like the woman he had been embracing.

Then he heard the voice of the Alseides:

_ARISE MY LITTLE DRAGON. LET US SCORCH THIS WORLD TO THE GROUND_

“ _Yes_ ,” his own voice seemed to reverberate around him. “ _Let it all burn_.”

… 

Dilandau awoke, desperately gulping in air as though he’d recovering from suffocation. When his lungs were sufficiently filled Dilandau instinctively tried to get up, only to find that he couldn’t move. He was inside the chest cavity of the Alseides, but the opening had been sealed. His arms and legs were still in the gauntlets, but he felt an additional weight against his chest and shoulder; some kind of bracer had been fitted there, where tubes of the orange plasma fed into his neck. 

In fact, they were all filled with plasma—none of his blood remained. All had been fed into the Alseides. Greedy bastard. 

No, that was alright. They were one in the same now, he and the Alseides. He was a dragon now. Dilandau felt his dry lips crack as they opened into a smile. 

The plasma was still burning hot inside him, but that was alright too. It felt good actually. It reminded him that he _was_ the fire now. It could never hurt him again.

Despite the darkness inside the chamber, Dilandau found that he could see outside—but not through his own eyes. He had a new awareness. Like a phantom limb, it was something he wasn’t quite attuned to. But when he flexed it, it came as easily to him like a muscle memory. He opened a new pair of eyes, and saw in more detail than he’d ever had before. 

The Sorcerers were all there, gathered in rapt anticipation below him. Below…? Of course, he _was_ the Alseides now!

Dilandau tested one of the gauntlets, found them to be immediately responsive. With simple manipulation of the mechanism, he felt the hand of the amour twitch. Through his new eyes, he saw the Sorcerers react. They began to buzz with excitement. Beyond them, Dilandau noticed his own Dragonslayers standing above them on an outcropping, watching him with a mixture of awe and anxiety. Jajuka was nowhere in sight, but Dilandau didn’t mind. All that mattered was that his own men remained loyal. But as for the Sorcerers… 

As he tested the subtle reflexes of his armor Dilandau noticed a pressure-like sensation building up in his head. No, not his head, the Alseides. And he suddenly had an idea of what it was. 

Sliding his tongue across his cracked lips, Dilandau seized upon the moment. He moved the Alseides forward, bending down, and activated the function. The head partition opened up, revealing a mouth-of-sorts. The Sorcerers below him all froze and stared up in fascination—which quickly turned to dread as they saw what was stored in this mouth. Dilandau savored their cries of dismay as a jet of pure flame erupted from the mouth. Their flesh instantly combusted upon impact, the wires and machinery of their appendages turning into slag. Dilandau took particular pleasure in witnessing the Head Sorcerer’s globe shatter and its brain frying on the floor. The resulting explosion filled the entire chamber in fire and smoke. 

For a moment, he was afraid he’d incinerated everything, but he picked up movement and saw his Dragonslayers scrambling to get away from the blaze. Good. Now he could focus on Van.

Yes, Van was here. He could sense the other dragon now—another gift from the Alseides? The Escaflowne had been right under their noses this whole time! His brother… 

Dilandau let out a laugh, which seemed to be enhanced by the armor until it echoed off the cavern’s walls and up into the sky. Now with his new vision Dilandau could see the tunnel connecting to the outside world above the mines. And as he perceived this, he felt another hidden function within the Alseides. He grinned; this dragon had wings afterall.

All that was left to do was ascend, and Dilandau would exact his revenge on Van. Then nothing would ever threaten him again! With a roar and fresh gout of flame, the Alseides spread its wings and the dragon rose up into the sky, reborn.


End file.
